


3.7 CCs (the Lambeth Walk With Me Remix)

by airspaniel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Coercion, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Gang Violence, M/M, Pre-Canon, Public Blow Jobs, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 07:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12054534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: The man obviously thought he was undercover, and seemed to be succeeding at the ruse. His hair was unkempt, flopping over his forehead in no deliberate style, more silver than one would expect from a man his age. He was short but not slight, almost certainly played rugby, his posture more upright than any actual thug would ever endure. Dark brown eyes widened in panic as Sherlock looked at him, a spark of recognition and fear that this may be the moment his cover was blown.Now thatwasinteresting.





	3.7 CCs (the Lambeth Walk With Me Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariadnes_string](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Certain Events in Lambeth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/200449) by [ariadnes_string](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string). 



> I didn't expect to write for Sherlock, but then I was lucky enough to get one of my favorite authors in the fandom, and couldn't resist remixing this fic I've loved so much for so long. You don't have to read the original _first_ , but do read the original! It's so good and Greg is so good, and this is a companion piece from Sherlock's POV.
> 
> Fair warning, Sherlock is strung out as hell here, and while he's pretty much fine with what's happening, he's not able to communicate that, and it's definitely a terrible situation even without the drugs. So if you have any sensitivities about drugged sex or what seems to be violent coercion, maybe give this one a miss. It's not a happy story.
> 
> Also, forgive me for the tangled web of references that is the title. I am a huge nerd, and I literally could not resist. Thanks to [redacted] for the beta/sanity or lack thereof check!

The drugs were wearing off. They wore off so quickly now, seemingly only seconds between the initial punch of euphoria, of perfect clarity, when his mind was pure and unfettered by the base and irrelevant needs of his body, and the inevitable crash back into that flesh prison.

He could feel his fingers again. He was aware he had hands. It wouldn’t be much longer now.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, at the web of cracks and stains in the plaster, spreading from the corner like veins, pumping wet rot and mold further into the room, turning the nicotine yellow to brown and black. How far would the decay spread before the plaster collapsed? His head hurt too badly to make the question anything but rhetorical.

His head hurt. Fuck. The end was nigh.

He reached over the side of the sofa, hand dragging against the floor until it hit the wooden box, left open and upended on the filthy carpet. He identified the spilled contents by touch: a glass pipe (empty), a syringe (empty), a length of rubber tubing. He didn’t bother continuing the exploration. There was nothing of interest or use.

The veins on the ceiling pulsed in time with his headache, and Sherlock closed his eyes. He would simply have to endure the boredom until he could bring himself to go out again; to find something worth trading for another fleeting high.

He didn’t flinch at the crash that rattled the flat hours, minutes, maybe seconds later. He wondered if the plaster would bury him. Wondered if he was relieved at the idea.

“Up and at ‘em, Sunshine. We’ve come for what’s owed us.”

Hawk. Lovely. This might be something interesting to pass the time. Sherlock turned his head and blinked lazily at the men in the doorway. There was Hawk, yes, looking gleeful at the prospect of violence, as always. Big Georgie, his mountainous form and vacant expression obediently at his master’s right hand. And on Hawk’s other side, a police officer.

Now that _was_ interesting.

The man obviously thought he was undercover, and seemed to be succeeding at the ruse. His hair was unkempt, flopping over his forehead in no deliberate style, more silver than one would expect from a man his age. He was short but not slight, almost certainly played rugby, his posture more upright than any actual thug would ever endure. Dark brown eyes widened in panic as Sherlock looked at him, a spark of recognition and fear that this may be the moment his cover was blown.

Sherlock remembered him now, a chance encounter in a hallway after his last consultation. Pretty, pretty eyes, the faintest hint of pink across his cheekbones as he turned and stalked away.

_Your secrets are safe with me_ , Sherlock thought, turning his attention back to the ceiling.

“Now then, Mr. Holmes,” Hawk rasped, taking a few steps further into the room. “What form of payment will you be making today?”

Sherlock rolled off the couch and stood up, making the movement smooth and fluid despite the way his limbs ached with disuse, projecting control. ““Ah. Mr. Wren. I’m afraid you find me a bit short of ready cash.”

Hawk grinned. “Well, it don’t have to be money, Sherlock, do it? Toss the place, lads.” And no sooner had the order been given than Georgie was at the desk, pulling out drawers and knocking test tubes and beakers to the floor. It was a shame there was nothing more dangerous than salt and ethanol in them now, or he might’ve caused a very satisfying little explosion. Finding nothing in the desk, Georgie turned his attention to the bookshelves. Hawk was seemingly so concerned with staring threateningly at Sherlock that he didn’t notice the third man in the room hadn’t yet touched anything.

“Nothing here but trash, boss,” Georgie said, several of Sherlock’s nicer hardcover volumes crushed in his giant paws.

“What about you, Lou?” Hawk said, turning his attention to the other man, who shook his head. Lou. It was as good a name as any.

Hawk shook his head, a mockery of disappointment. “No gold watch, Sherlock? No silver cufflinks?”

Sherlock sighed. “I think you’ll find the first edition Lytton Strachey your colleague is mauling would fetch a pretty penny at the antiquarian book dealers.” It wouldn’t. He would have sold it months ago if that were true. “You’re welcome to it, if you like.” 

“If you say so, ducky, but it won’t do.” Hawk said sweetly, patronizing. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to take it out of you in kind. Grab a hold of him, would you, Lou?”

Lou moved behind him and Sherlock relaxed his wrists into the other man’s hands. After all, Lou wasn’t a threat. 

Hawk leaned in and touched him, fingertips up the ribs too hard to tickle, just enough to drag his shirt up, and Sherlock stopped bracing for a beating. He really hadn’t felt like taking a punch today, and sex was nothing. 

Sherlock felt himself shiver, a side effect of the comedown, as Hawk called Georgie up to do the honors. The hands around his wrists tightened. Lou was about to do something unnecessarily noble, no doubt.

“Aw, boss,” the man whined. “How come Georgie gets all the fun?” And there it was. Sherlock leaned back into him, not exactly grateful but relieved all the same. Lou hesitated, clearly didn’t have a plan, and Sherlock was just about to bend over and put the man out of his misery when he spoke again.

“Wouldn’t mind a bit of cigar rolling, if you know what I mean. Been jonesing for it all week.”

Sherlock didn’t laugh, but only just. Then Hawk’s thumb was at his lips, bitter with dirt and grease, and Sherlock twisted his head away. His legs were kicked out from under him and he hit the ground hard, jerked into position by the fist in his hair. Hawk let go like he was throwing out the trash, and Sherlock heard him cross the room and slump into the desk chair.

When he’d pulled himself up to his knees, he looked up at the man in front of him, who was staring helplessly. His head hurt and his knees hurt and he was tired of this entire situation.

“I know you,” Sherlock said, quietly. He had maybe meant it as reassurance, maybe even as permission. Hawk barked and Lou froze, and maybe he’d just been trying to push someone to end this sooner. Somehow.

But then Lou’s hand grabbed his hair, yanked his head back just hard enough to look rough. “Go on. There’re better uses for that mouth of yours than talking.”

Sherlock kept his hands on his thighs, waited for Lou to shove his clothes out of the way, and just as expected, the man wasn't even hard. He let himself be pulled forward, pretending that the tentative tug on his hair was enough to goad him into opening his mouth, wrapping his lips around Lou’s soft prick. If he hadn’t already known the man was a fake, it would’ve been obvious here, the neat trim of short silver curls around the base of his cock; the way he smelled of clean sweat and soap. Hawk’s crew was never so meticulous about hygiene. The man was cut, an almost charming novelty, and Sherlock ran his tongue around the flared head as it fattened, the shaft reluctantly thickening in his mouth.

Sherlock pressed the tip of his tongue into the slit, and the man above him gasped and stiffened all at once, body and cock. Sherlock’s tongue laved over the underside, feeling the thick vein that pulsed in time with Lou’s heartbeat, with the headache still pounding in his own temples. The man himself looked as if he’d been shocked. Brown eyes blown wide and so dark they seemed black, a void it might have been easy to submerge himself in if the circumstances were different, if the drugs had lasted a few minutes more. Sherlock closed his eyes to remove the distraction. The sooner this task was completed, the sooner he could return to oblivion, or something like it. And fortunately, this task had a clear and decisive end.

“Oi,” Hawk said. “Put some back into it, Lou. This ain’t the bloody Proms. Nobody’s paying for your refinement and gentility.”

Georgie laughed, and the hand in Sherlock’s hair tightened, finally, _finally_ taking control of the situation. Sherlock let his mouth go slack, his throat open, as Lou snapped his hips forward, fucking his mouth in earnest.

It wasn’t enough, wasn’t going to _be_ enough, either because of the circumstance or the man’s nervousness, and Sherlock just wanted it to be over. He reached up, touching the other man for the first time with something other than his mouth, and gathered Lou’s balls into his palm, long fingers curled around the back. He rolled them gently for a moment, then pressed them close to the other man’s body, pushing his fingertips hard into the perineum, and _there_ … 

Lou choked out a startled moan and shoved erratically into Sherlock’s throat, coming so deep that Sherlock hardly tasted it. He pulled back and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. Lou was looking at him in amazement, like he’d just performed an astounding magic trick, and honestly, the man would have to learn to school his expression in future if he was ever going to have a career in gang violence.

Sherlock closed his eyes again. His head hurt so badly, he could feel it all the way down his spine, all the way through his fingertips, his toes, and down into his gut, a constant nauseous throb. He hardly felt it when he was kicked over, when he hit the ground, Hawk saying something he no doubt thought was cutting and clever as he walked away. Soon there would be silence. Soon he could sleep.

“Are you alright?” A voice said to him from far away. “Do you need a hospital?”

It was a nice voice, a familiar voice, and Sherlock hummed an acknowledgment. “No,” he said. 

“I’m fine,” he said.

“It’s only transport,” he said, and knew no more.


End file.
